XXV 111 
“ Call the vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their bells, and Oow’rets of a thousand hues, 
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use 
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks; 
On whose fresh lap, the swart star sparely looks. 
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes. 
That on the green turf suck the honied showers. 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers .’ 5 
Milton. 
